


The Ententes

by Hesiones



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesiones/pseuds/Hesiones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are bonds that cannot be broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ententes

     Zoe Hange was a dreamer. Her mother was a pacifist. Her father was self-made.

     Sometimes, this didn’t work out very well.

     “Zoe! Finish your homework!” her father would bellow up the stairs. She would start guiltily – caught procrastinating again – and quickly finish her work. Homework itself never took her long, and her father knew it. The only way she could spend more than an hour on it was to procrastinate. And during supper afterwards, her father would lecture her about how lucky she was to have such a good education and how hundreds of peasant children would kill for what she’d taken for granted.

     Her father had been one of those peasant children.

     Those evenings usually ended with her father reviewing her grades and hovering over her while she was made to study the subject she was doing the worst on. Her mother would clear the dishes and settle by them with a newspaper. It was all thoroughly miserable, especially when her father would make comments about taking away her education and making her work the fields if she really hated school that much.

      When she started crying, her father would snap: “What’s the use of crying? Get to your work.”

     Often, Zoe returned from gathering wood to find her father opening the door, glaring stormily at her.

     “How come it always takes you so long to gather firewood? Were you slacking off? Do you need me to watch over you all day, teach you how to do it again?”

     She had been slacking off – it was true – but the air was cool and clean outside. The sun created dapples of soft, warm light on the rich, moist forest floor. The smell of spring rain dripped from vibrant, newly-sprouted green leaves and gathered on the violets and bluebells that carpeted the woods.

     Her father would shoo her into the house, telling her to at least get the dishes done and the kitchen cleaned. This she would complete too slowly for his taste, and he’d start yelling at her again.

     “Here,” he’d say impatiently, grabbing a bowl from the washbasin. “This is how to do the dishes efficiently.”

     He’d take the sud-filled washcloth and swipe it a few times around the bowl, then set it aside with a clatter in an empty basin.

      “First, scrub them all with soap, then rinse them all together in that other basin. Saves time, saves trips to the pump.”

     Zoe decided not to mention that he’d missed a few spots of grease on the bowl.

Zoe probably deserved all this, but she was tired and sore from all the times her father would call her “useless” and “lazy” and “a piece of trash”. Her mother would stand by the side, occasionally defending Zoe, mostly keeping quiet – and Zoe _knew_ that meant ma agreed with at least some part of pa’s harsh, hurtful words.

     As a self-made man, Zoe’s father (unconsciously) thought that his words were law, his standards the ones that all others should aspire to. I did it, so why can’t you? If you can’t, that just means you’re lazy, he seemed to say. Such is the way of many hard-working, rags-to-riches men. Zoe hated his ego, his condescension, but she always forgave him in the end. He was still kind to her. She was his child, after all. He loved her, but he often wondered aloud about how he could’ve had such an undisciplined, slothful daughter.

     So when Zoe turned twelve, she decided to enlist. She half hated the walls that kept the outside world from her curious fingertips. She hated the titans for being such mindless obstacles in the way of her imagination. Otherwise, she didn’t seem suited to the military life, and her father said so.

     But her father was wrong. She was not useless, she was not lazy. She could do something to help humanity. She would prove him wrong.

     And she would rather be berated about laziness by an indifferent teacher than her father. Fair enough.

     On the first day, when their trainer looked at her and pointed, shouting: “YOU! WHAT’S YOUR NAME?” she screamed back: “HANGE! ZOE HANGE!”

     Later, when the new trainees were eating in the barracks, she told those who came to talk to “just call me Hange.”

     To survive the three, strenuous, backbreaking years of training, she daydreamed. When her elbows trembled and her sweat dripped and she couldn’t do another pushup for fear of dying (even as the trainer called: “MORE!”), she daydreamed to forget the pain. When her legs were tired and her fingers numb from the cold, blizzard-ravaged mountain hike, she daydreamed to forget her weariness. When a friendly, kind trainee died of heat exhaustion, she daydreamed to forget her tears. Hange was known for her far-off gaze and the lengths it took to bring her back from a daze.

     Although Hange would sometimes break her spell and reveal her impulsive side. She got into trouble occasionally for pulling a prank or starting a fight or summat. Of course, she got into trouble enough just by being her regular, absent-minded self, by not paying attention.

     In this way, she could escape while her body ached. Some trainees wondered how Hange could withstand so much, complete so many difficult tasks without complaint, without fail. But a few others looked at her face and understood.

     Also in this way, Hange ranked first among the trainees at graduation. The academic tests were no big deal – she procrastinated, sure, but when she wanted to, she could study for hours on end. And what they were learning was actually very interesting, so much more than the reading-‘riting-‘rithmetic she’d had to choke down at home.

     On graduation day, many parents came, including her own. Hange’s father and mother swept her up with shining eyes.

     “You did it!” her father laughed, holding her close. “We are so proud of you.”

     Quietly, he murmured: “I’m sorry, Zoe.”

     And suddenly, Zoe was happy. She hugged him back.

     When the food was eaten and the air was full of shouts and words and music, Zoe glanced at her parents’ faces and knew that they all needed to talk in private.

     She led them to the empty trainees’ quarters and perched on her bunk. Her parents followed suit, one sitting on each side of her.

     “Zoe, which division are you planning to join?” her mother asked, softly.

     “The Scouting Legion.” Zoe replied, clasping her hands together in her lap.

     “We thought so.” her father murmured. Her parents looked gaunt in the flickering, yellow, shadow-dance candlelight.

     “Zoe, be careful, alright? Be careful, and do your best to help humanity.” her mother whispered.

     They held her tight for a long while.

     “Zoe, I heard some trainees call you Hange.” Zoe’s mother commented. Zoe was still buried under her parents’ arms. “Is that what you go by around here?”

     “Yes, ma.” came Zoe’s muffled answer.

     Her father guffawed. “Embracing the military life, eh, _Hange_?”

     Her mother chuckled. “Then save ‘Zoe’ for us, will you?”

     “Yes, ma.”

     “Even if you’re big, strong Hange to everybody else, you’ll always be our little Zoe, deal?”

      “Yes, pa.”

* * *

 

     The trainees patrolled Zhiganshina the day after that. Here, they saw their first titans: big, ugly, gape-mouthed, clamoring brutes with sagging bellies and drunken gaits and grinning, savage jaws. Many who were considering joining the Reconnaissance Corps changed their minds. Many of the top ten averted their eyes, relieved that they could (and were going to) join the Military Police. Zoe – who had already taken for granted that she was joining Recon – just wished that her ma and pa were here with her. But then she didn’t – her father had a crippling fear of heights and her mother would become nauseous at the sight of the abominations outside.

     Six of the top ten trainees went to the Military Police: the third, fourth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth-ranked. No matter. Hange understood them. The third and the fourth were the bullies of the trainee squad – Hange frequently had to show up with a well-aimed punch for one and a collar-dangle for the other. Though they actually weren’t that bad – the bad ones were kicked out by the trainers. That kind of behavior wasn’t tolerated.

     The other four Military Police recruits were just scared or wanted the prestige or something. That was all right. Hange liked a few of them. Hopefully, they would turn out to be the good kind of Military Police, like the nice one that found a lost, eight year old Zoe in the streets of her hometown. He let her ride with him on his gentle, sugar-loving horse all the way back to her home.

     And the rest of the ten? The second and the fifth went with Hange to the Scouting Legion. The fourth went to the Garrison. Her name was Rico and she was a cool, calculating person who cracked good jokes and got on well with Hange. She helped out with a few pranks now and then. Hange could count on her to get her out of trouble and then laugh her head off later.

     “I can’t help anyone if I’m dead or in the _Military Police_.” was Rico’s reason for joining the Garrison, when Hange asked. “At least I can kill a few titans when you Scouts ride out on another suicide mission and we have to clear out the area so you don’t get killed immediately.”

     Hange had to accept her reasoning.

     Rico grabbed Hange’s hands. “Hey Hange, try not to die too fast, okay? You’re a good person.”

     Hange hugged her.

     The second was a tall boy with white-blond hair, sharp green eyes, and a smile that made even Rico crush on him for a year. Yeah, Rhys (rees) was popular. Of course he was: he treated everyone kindly, had a dry sense of humor, and made girls (perhaps a few boys, too) blush furiously whenever he paid them attention. He also got on well with Rico and Hange.

     “You are geniuses,” he would drawl after some successful escapade or another, and they would all grin.

     Hange often caught Rhys looking at her, then turning away quickly. Unfortunately, Hange did not crush on Rhys back. She had crushed on the friendly, kind boy who died of heat exhaustion. It still hurt to think about him.

     Hange had no idea why anyone would _like_ like her. She stopped paying attention to her looks (and she didn’t think she was much to look at anyway) after Einar died. She was always staring off into the distance or acting spontaneously. A lot of people thought she was mildly weird.

     The fifth was an idealistic boy named Ignaas (ikNAHS) who drew whenever he had time. Hange would often sit by him while he sketched out something with a pencil he never, ever lost in all three years of training. His parents presented him with a box of pencils and a thick, creamy-papered notebook upon graduation.

* * *

 

     On the new scouts’ first expedition outside the walls, Ignaas and Rhys died.

     Ignaas was eaten whole, but first his head was wrung like a chicken’s.

     _No blood, at least,_ Hange thought faintly. Rhys screamed and shot his cables into the titan, launching into the air. He wasn’t fast enough. This time, this time there was blood.

     Hange heard herself shrieking, but it was vague white noise against her main focus, the nape of the titan’s neck. Oh, but _she_ was fast enough.

     The titan’s blood evaporating on her clothes, she _reveled_ in it. She reveled in the small jerk the titan gave before it collapsed. She reveled in the steam that began to rise from it, like the smoke from a funeral pyre. She reveled in the intense, suffocating heat as it blew her tears dry. She reveled in herself – she, the deathblow. She would kill them all. They would pay.

     Hange dropped neatly back onto her horse and sped on. If that was what killing a titan felt like (this was her first kill, she registered hazily), she’d do it again and again and again.

     So she did. This first titan was a class twelve. Her next was a class fourteen. Her next was a class eight.

     Hange’s squad leader stared at the flash of her blades and the whip of her forest green cloak and thought: _She’s only fifteen_.

* * *

 

     When the Legion came back to the walls, she more or less returned to her normal behavior. She wept over her dead friends, she stared off into space, she comforted others as they mourned lost comrades.

     But there was something different now, she supposed. At least in the way others regarded her.

     “That’s the new girl who ranked first among the trainees and killed five titans by herself,” they’d inform each other, voices hushed with not a little awe. When senior Scouts spoke to her, they now held a note more of respect in their voices than they would have for someone they’d consider a rookie.

     Hange didn’t think she deserved all that recognition. They weren’t talking about her. They were talking about her when she went berserking. That wasn’t her.

     Every one or two years, there would be an expedition outside the walls. Every one or two years, she would gaze into the face of a titan and something fragile would break inside of her. She would gaze into the face of a titan and want to _wipe that grin off its face_.

     Battle rage. It was a powerful, reckless, wild thing. It would well up inside of her and burst through her arteries like a geyser through rock. It would leave her bruised and bloodied and ecstatic. It would leave her with only a drop of gas at the end of the day, but _heavens_ , it was all worth it.

     Hange was probably one of the most valuable soldiers recon had. However, no one dared offer her a promotion. No one even considered it if they’d ever heard her laughing as she severed the head off a titan – _severed_ – if they’d ever seen that fevered glint behind her safety goggles.

     She didn’t register the world, the people around her, when she killed. Hell, she didn’t even register _herself_. Hange agreed with the unspoken words of her superiors. She would not be a good leader.

     But inside the walls, she was a friendly, caring person who always listened and laughed a lot. She still wore that far-away look often, but no matter little attention she paid the world at times, she could understand it. In fact, she was an invaluable strategist. Though she was in no position of leadership, she attended most of the officers’ meetings. And, late at night, she and Captain Irvin would sit by candlelight, discussing his fledgling idea for a relay formation that could hopefully cut loss of life on those expeditions to the outside.

     When Hange had time, she would visit her parents. Occasionally, they would visit her too. Some Scouts thought Hange looked younger when her parents were around. Her parents thought she looked older than she ought to have.

     Then, one day, Irvin and the other higher-ups brought in a short man with black hair and narrowed grey eyes. He sat, scowling, as they settled in the conference room.

     “Hange,” Irvin said. “This is Levi. We’ve recruited him into the Corps. Could you show him around, help him get used to things around here?”

     Hange couldn’t help smirking a little at Levi’s menacing expression.

     “Sure, Irvin!” she replied, reaching a hand across the table for Levi to shake. “Hello, Levi! I’m Hange Zoe. Nice to meet you!”


End file.
